Rowan became conscious of two things at once. It was the dream. The same dream, although a slightly different version. It was just the dream. And she was being shaken. Her eyes flew open and clashed immediately with glacial blue ones. Isandro looked down at her, impatience stamped all over his face. She was in Spain, not in that awful room.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? You were almost screaming the house down. Zac is asleep just across the hall.’
Zac.
The terror of the dream was still so real that she shuddered. She felt completely disorientated. It was dark—the curtains leading outside fluttered gently in the warm breeze. Isandro’s big hands were still on her shoulders, his body half sitting on the bed, uncomfortably close enough for her to smell his scent, feel his heat. She jerked back.
‘What time is it?’
He let her go when she moved, and glanced at the platinum watch encircling one wrist.
‘Half past eleven.’
Rowan shook her head. ‘At night?’
He nodded and stood up. ‘Julia, the housekeeper, looked in on you at dinnertime, but you were sound asleep so I told her to leave you alone.’ He studied her, and then asked harshly, ‘What is it? Are you jetlagged?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘No. Just … tired. It was just a bad dream. I … I had no idea I was crying out.’ She put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing slightly. She became aware she was dressed in nothing but the robe and it was gaping open. She pulled it closed and awkwardly got up off the bed. ‘I must have been more tired than I realised, that’s all.’
Isandro put on the small bedside light and it threw long shadows across the room and his autocratic face. Rowan could see that he was still in his clothes.
‘I was on my way to bed when I heard you.’
‘Oh …’ She felt as if he’d read her mind, and a blush came up to stain her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘If it’s likely to happen again I’ll have to move you to the other side of the house, away from Zac. If he gets woken at night he’s impossible to put back down.’
‘It won’t.’ Rowan sent up a silent prayer. The dreams were a regular occurrence. Mainly they were tinged with sadness, and she woke crying, but this one had been more intense. It must be just because of the recent events. ‘Really,’ she assured Isandro, wanting his disturbing presence to be gone. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Isandro looked at her. Her skin was pink, her hair sexily tousled. Had this been some sort of ruse? To lead him in here, to try and seduce him? Was she aware of her effect on him? Had she become practised in the art of seduction these last two years? That thought made something knot deep in his gut. He couldn’t put out of his mind the way she had felt under his hands just now, the frailty of her bones. Her clean, slightly musky scent. And yet the terror in her voice had been real enough, and the sound of her screams.
‘See that it doesn’t.’ His voice sounded constricted to his own ears, and he was aware of the irrationality of his statement. If she had been in the grip of a genuine nightmare, of course she wouldn’t be able to control her responses. He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Damn the woman for coming back.
Isandro went across the hall and pushed open Zac’s door, looking in to see his son sleeping peacefully, half on the bed, half off. He went over and placed him back safely in the middle, his heart swelling with love for this little boy. He hated the fact that he had to dance to Rowan’s tune—hated the fact that as Zac’s mother she could be allowed access to a child she had so callously walked away from. His hands clenched into fists. He had no choice but to allow her this access, but God help her if she thought he was going to allow her to take him away.
The following morning Rowan felt groggy, her head heavy. She had woken to a knock on the door, and now looked as a young maid came into the room. She pulled back the drapes farther, letting sunlight stream into the room, and opened the French doors wider. A bird called outside. Warmth came in on the light breeze and Rowan felt herself respond to it instinctively, letting it into her bones. It felt good.
‘Buenos Días.’
‘Buenos Días.’ Rowan echoed, sitting up in the bed. She smiled at the girl hesitantly, and was rewarded with a shy smile. She was informed that breakfast would be served downstairs in fifteen minutes.
After a quick shower, and dressing in a plain skirt and T-shirt—one of about three outfits she owned—Rowan went downstairs. She felt self-conscious, well aware that she must look shabby. She just hadn’t had to worry about clothes in so long, and she certainly hadn’t expected to be here. Her mind flew from those concerns as she approached what must be the dining room door. She could hear the shouts of Zac.